


Faith in the Unknown

by bar2d2s



Category: IT (2017), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Character Turned Into a Ghost, F/F, M/M, Post-Movie, The day is saved thanks to spooky lesbians, and then the haunting worsens, background Benverly enjoying their happy ending, haunted house scenario, you can date a ghost?! -I- can date a ghost
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 04:44:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20718302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bar2d2s/pseuds/bar2d2s
Summary: You can find anything in Los Angeles. Companionship, fame, family. A way to talk to the dead. And sometimes, if you're really lucky, the dead will talk back.Richie isn't ready to say goodbye and as it turns out, Eddie isn't either.





	1. Chapter 1

Richie didn’t remember the trip home to L.A., not really. He vaguely remembered hugging Bev at the airport, promising to call when he touched down. He’d been on enough planes by this point that the flight was a blur, too distracted by the ever-present thought of  _ why didn’t they just leave me down there _ to pay much attention to the people around him.

It was Katelyn, one of his writers and the woman whose girlfriend he routinely mocked onstage, that picked him up from LAX.

“Jesus, Tozier, I thought you were going to ass-end-of-nowhere Maine, not someplace that was actually y’know, dangerous.” He blinked at her slowly, the words taking a minute to land.

“Huh?” She gestured at his cuts, and still-cracked glasses. “Oh, yeah, I...there was an accident. There was a- can we go get a drink? Or something? You can tell me who you got to make your jokes about Emerald sound convincing while I was gone.”

Katelyn takes them to an In-N-Out, and they sit in the car, silent as Richie stares at his chocolate shake. But that’s why he likes her so much, she’s always patient enough to wait him out.

“I went to Derry for a funeral. An old friend of mine he uh, he killed himself. So another friend got the old gang back together, to say goodbye.” She nods, face appropriately sympathetic and waits for him to go on. “While we were there, all together again for the first time in over twenty-five years, we decided to go and uh, go walk around this creepy old house that always used to scare the shit out of Stan. Like, in his memory. To show him that nothing is really as scary as it seems. And then, uh.” He takes a sip of his shake, but it’s like cold ash on his tongue, and he can barely swallow. “This fucking house. It should have been torn down when we were kids, but no one ever bothered to so, so it was still there. And it was the six of us, grown-ass adults, stomping around on this shitty-ass wood and it uh. It g-gave way.”

He’s started shaking, and Katelyn touches his shoulder. Richie wants to tell the truth, that his best friend had died fighting a demon from another universe and that he was the bravest motherfucker he’d ever known but...this was the story they’d all agreed on, to explain it all away. The house on Neibolt Street. Eddie. If he was lucky, he’d only have to tell it this once.

“Eddie, my- Eddie, he fell through the floor, down to the basement. He got im-impaled on one of the leftover metal spikes they’d used to build the fence outside. We tried to go down and get him but he was, the floor giving way set off a chain reaction and the house just...crumbled. He died down there, alone and I just-” Richie realizes too late that he’s crying, the same great sobs he’d cried alone on the kissing bridge, staring at the carefully re-carved initials. Far away from anyone who could comfort him, still holding a stupid little pocket knife that couldn’t have done much damage if he’d turned it on himself. But he wasn’t alone here now.

“Oh, honey.” Katelyn wasn’t a California native either, wandering to L.A. from a small town in north Florida right where it met the Georgia border around a decade ago, and she never really lost the twang. Especially when some idiot she worked with was having an emotional breakdown in her car. “Oh, honey honey. I know, I know. Death is the fucking worst of all the inevitabilities.”

“You only say that because you’re not in my tax bracket.” He replied with a hiccup, and it startled a laugh out of her. “Bask in it while you can, I’ll be back to stealing your bits soon enough.”

“And here I thought we could give Em a break, for once. Not that she’s done anything particularly funny recently, she’s a little too busy losing her shit over the wedding we’re probably gonna scrap. Seriously, Richie, if you ever get the idea in your head to get married, elope.”

There it was. His moment. Katelyn always talked so plainly about the woman she loved, and he’d been a coward when it came to the only person he’d ever loved his entire life.

“I don’t think I ever will, Katie. The only man I could see myself growing old and ugly with just died.”

Katelyn wrenched herself away from him for a moment, face going on an absolute  _ journey _ as her brain absorbed and re-contextualized what he’d told her. “Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Did he-”

“No. Didn’t get the chance to- I couldn’t even say goodbye. So much shit I could have said in the time we had together again and I was too much of a fucking coward to even be like hey! Remember how I used to make jokes about how I was gonna fuck your mom? Well, as it turns out, I love you.” Richie’s using humor to deflect again, and Katelyn sees directly through  _ that _ bullshit. He never was that good at the words bit, he just had great timing and a weird enough voice to make it in this stupid town. “I just. I don’t know. I forgot about how I felt for so long, and then we were together again like nothing had changed, and now he’s gone. It’s not a concept I’m handling very well.” Richie looked up then, hoping for some words of sympathy, of advice, anything. But Katelyn wasn’t looking at him. She was staring out the windshield, contemplating something he couldn’t see. “Kate?” She startles, as if she’d forgotten he was in the car, and gives a sheepish laugh.

“So, I had a thought. And it might sound completely insane but...what do you know about spiritualism?”


	2. Chapter 2

He’s half convinced that they’re making fun of him.

Katelyn had always been vague about what her girl did for a living, mentioning offhandedly that Emerald was in grief management, which Richie had always assumed meant she was a shrink or something. Well, he was right about the  _ or something _ . 

“I’ve had the gift since I was a kid, but I didn’t do much with it until I moved here. People will do anything for real proof of the afterlife, to get closure. And it pays the bills.” Richie wants to mutter something along the line of  _ bullshit, Kate pays the bills _ but honestly, he can’t really be sure who the top earner between the two of them might be. He makes sure that his asshole manager pays the writers all they deserve and more though, that he knows. “Lynnie gave me an overview of what you went through, sudden death is always traumatic. For every soul involved.”

Emerald leads them into the dining room, a cozy space lit by candles. The curtains are drawn, which seems a bit extra for ten in the evening, but he’s never been to an honest to fucking god seance before, so who’s he to say what’s normal or not? “Please, sit.” The table was round, and small enough that Richie felt like an intruder. “First, we join hands.” They did, and Richie was suddenly very aware of how sweaty his palms were.

“Do you need like, something of his? Or even his name?” He felt anxious. There were so many shitty movies out about how stupid it was to talk to the dead, and he’d only  _ just _ escaped the clutches of an inter-dimensional demon. Emerald wrinkled her nose.

“Absolutely not. Things are left behind when the soul transcends the body, and anything could claim to be a name. I need you to think of a happy memory, from a time before death. Concentrate on it, let it be the only thing in your mind.” He nodded when he was ready, and she nodded back. “We call out to those beyond. Lift the veil, I am ready to listen.”

Silence permeated the room for five minutes. Ten. His hands were sweating harder than ever, and the back of Richie’s neck itched horribly. And then Emerald inhaled.

“I’m sorry.” Richie’s head whipped around, trying to see if anyone was there, but her apology had been aimed at him. “There’s a presence here but...he doesn’t want to talk to you.” Oh, that was  _ it _ .

“This is just- you’re so full of shit!” He exploded, but didn’t drop their hands. “And this is what you do for a living?! There’s no one here but us and I- this, this is the kind of bullshit person you’re marrying, Kate? Someone that preys on people in mourning and-”

“Beep beep, Richie.”

Emerald had said it in her own voice, looked sort of bewildered at the phrasing even, but it shut him up immediately. Then he’s dropping their hands, letting his face fall to the table. His glasses crack more. No. This isn’t, he can’t- Eddie is  _ gone _ .

Emerald had told him to focus on a happy memory, so he’d remembered the time they’d rode home from school together, that fall after It. Eddie’s mom hadn’t forbidden them from hanging out after school anymore, so they were free to do whatever they wanted, but all Eddie wanted to do was ride. They’d made it all the way out to the barrens before they turned back. Summer was over and the air was crisp, and Eddie’s nose was pink from the wind and laughing too hard at Richie’s stupid voices, and Richie’s heart was so full he felt it might burst.

“He says he remembers that day too, that it was one of the first that came back to him. He says he didn’t mean to go so soon.”

Richie wants to throw his chair at the wall. He’d lied to Kate, about how Eddie had died. But Emerald knew, he could see it. She knew, and soon her wife would know, that the bravest man he ever knew died killing a demon clown from another universe.

“I came here to say goodbye, but I don’t want to. I barely got to say hello.” His voice is thick, unwilling to cry again. He’s cried too many times in front of too many people lately, that shit needed to  _ stop _ .

Distantly, from somewhere outside his body, Richie could feel Kate stroking his hair.

“He says that if it makes you feel better, he’s not ready to move on. He also called you a shitbird.”

Richie laughed, face in his hands as he was petted. “Tell him that he’s like four years too late to try and fuck my mom, but I bet I’ve still got a shot with his.”

The table rattled as Emerald’s leg started jiggling uncontrollably. “I can’t keep the connection open much longer, his presence is stronger than the ones I’m used to. Richie, do you have anything else you’d like to say?”

He has a lifetime of things he wants to tell Eddie. A lifetime of things he wants to ask. Did Eddie ever get the letters he wrote after he moved? Did he know how much of a badass he really was? But there was one thing he absolutely needed to say, and another thing he couldn’t.

“I’m not saying goodbye, not yet. But I need you to know, Eddie, I, I’ve loved you since before I could actually figure out how love felt.” He felt Kate press a soft kiss to the back of his head, one of her hands moving down to grip his again. “You mind, Kay? I’m having a moment here.”

“Mind what?”

And when he finally looked up, Kate was across the table, both hands on Emerald’s shoulders. Emerald was sweating and shaking, letting Kate comfort her in the way he thought she’d been doing to him. 

“So, weird question-“


	3. Chapter 3

When they’d come up from It’s lair, just the five of them, Richie had been covered in Eddie’s blood. It clung to his hands and his face, stained his shirt. He’d mindlessly scrubbed it from his body in the filthy water, but it wasn’t until he’d seen the clotted red on his cracked glasses that he’d realized. This was the last bit of Eddie he would ever have. Sure, he could steal things out of Eddie’s bag back at the house, but this had been  _ part _ of him. It was creepy and disgusting, and Eddie would have hated it, but Richie couldn’t just get rid of the only part of Eddie’s body he’d managed to save. So he waited until they were drying on the shore, then ripped off a piece of his shirt and rubbed the blood onto it, tucking it into his pocket. He could laminate it or something later, keep the blood from going anywhere. For now, he’d keep it safe in his wallet.

Eddie’s blood was still in his pocket.

“They’re called tokens.” Richie let out a hollow laugh.

“Yeah, I’m familiar with the concept.” But Emerald wasn’t laughing. In fact, she seemed furious.

“Clearly, you aren’t. If you were, you’d know how  _ stupid _ it was to have one on you during communication. We do not take things from the dead, Richie, especially when they’re offered.” The phrasing sent a chill up his spine, but he couldn’t quite figure out why. “I know you’ll insist I’m wrong, especially now but...sometimes, dead is better, Richie.”

Richie pushed his chair back, jumping up abruptly. “Oh, bullshit! Your whole  _ deal _ is about taking what the dead say and turning it into cash! You’re telling me that if Kate died tomorrow, you’d just let her go?”

The women exchanged a look, Emerald placing her hand atop the one Katelyn had on her shoulder.

“Yes, and I expect her to do the same. Life is for the living.”

“ _ Bullshit _ !” Richie yells again, slamming his fists on the table. To her credit, Emerald doesn’t jump, like Katelyn does. “Who the fuck have  _ you _ lost? What do  _ you _ know about what I’ve been through?!” He knows he shouldn’t antagonize her, would need her if he ever wanted to talk to Eddie again, but the grief and the fear and the rage he’s had bubbling under the surface for the past few days have finally come to a head and now he just. Can’t. Stop.

Emerald holds up a hand

“We all lose people. I lost my grandmother when I was very young, but she didn’t leave me until I was nearly sixteen. My uncle refused to leave until I was almost twenty. And when my father died, I knew I needed to get out of that goddamn house, or the past would never stop following me around. They don’t always... _ look _ the way they did when they died, but sometimes they do.” Her hand went to her cheek, and Richie froze.

“You saw him?” She nodded, sighing.

“I always see them, Richie. Every day, all over. I can tell you exactly which Hollywood haunts are real and which are rumours. I can tell when a realtor is lying about how many recent deaths have been in an apartment. And I can see your friend with the slash on his cheek and the hole in his chest, no matter how hard he tried to cover it up with his jacket.”

Richie had sat back down, head in his hands, but snapped up to look at Emerald when she mentioned the jacket. “What jacket?” Emerald shrugged.

“Black. Leather, looks like. Seems like overkill, to have two jackets this time of year, even in Maine, but-”

“That’s my jacket!” Richie interrupted excitedly. “That’s my- I tried to use it to stop the bleeding. He still has it? He took it with him? I thought they said you couldn’t  _ do _ that-” Normally, it takes someone else cutting him off to shut Richie up, but these weren’t normal circumstances, and Katelyn and Emerald were exchanging  _ looks _ again. “What?”

“You said you felt it when he touched you?” Her tone was light, cautious, as if she was gauging exactly how much bad news she needed to lay out. Heart in his throat, Richie nodded. “You have his blood, and he has your jacket. Were you also injured in the-  _ accident _ ?”

“I mean, I got a couple of cuts, yeah.” Emerald massaged her temples, rising from the table and stalking out of the room. “What?” The lights in the dining room went on, and Richie felt like he was going blind. “What did I do?”

“Get out of my house!” Emerald snapped, grabbing him by the back of the shirt. “It’s too late for you, but I refuse to have this shit infecting  _ us _ . Take him home, Lynnie. And drive carefully.” She steered him through the house, pushing him out the front door. Katelyn was also pushed out, but given a short kiss for her trouble.

It took until they got back to the car for Richie to get over his shock and find his voice again. “The fuck did she mean it was too late for me?!” Kate waited until they were on the road before she answered him.

“You’re haunted, dude.”


	4. Chapter 4

When they were kids, Eddie’s mom had only ever let him listen to old country records from the 40s and 50s, because they were calming and wouldn’t get him too worked up. It wasn’t until they were almost nine that Richie managed to sneak Eddie his cassette player and a few tapes.

“It’s just to tide you over until our sleepover on Friday. You’re gonna lose your mind, Eddie Spaghetti!”

“Don’t  _ call _ me that!” Eddie had protested, but took the tape deck anyway. Out of curiosity, he assured himself. There were only four tapes in the bag he’d been given, two of which were blank; no band names or track listings to indicate what they could possibly have on them. The newest tape was still in its plastic,  _ One Particular Harbour _ by Jimmy Buffett. Eddie wrinkled his nose. He knew that guy. Mother always said that his music promoted alcoholism and dangerous world travel. He decided to listen to the blank tapes first.

Not the best idea.

“You gave me  _ devil music _ !” He’d shrieked at Richie the next day, flinging the bag at him at recess. “Now my ears are  _ poisoned _ and I’m gonna go to  _ hell _ !” Richie examined the tapes, noticing that only one of the blank tapes looked partially listened to. Putting on the headphones, he hit play. And started laughing.

“It’s just the Doors, you goofball! The devil music is on one of the other tapes.” The sight of Eddie’s wobbly bottom lip made him tone down the mockery a bit. “Hey, hey. You know devil music isn’t a thing, right? It’s just what fundies said to make people feel bad about liking the Beatles when our parents were our age.”

“But it’s  _ loud _ and that awful man kept insisting that whoever ‘she’ was, got high! I don’t wanna get high, Richie! I’m scared of heights!” Richie pulled his friend into a tight hug, before Eddie could start bawling in plain sight of everyone.

“Okay, okay, I get it, you’re not ready for rock and roll. You can give ‘em back, it’s okay.” But Eddie shook his head, grabbing the tape deck back. “What, now you wanna listen?”

“I wanna be ready for whatever you’re gonna torture me with at the sleepover.” Eddie replied with a sniff and strangely, Richie felt his heart begin to beat faster.

“You’re real brave, Eddie Spaghetti.”

That Friday, Richie mostly played his mother’s old records, which were nicer and more romantic than his dad’s heavier rock music, except for a record by a band called Coven, which had a picture of three people and a skull on the front. The beautiful blonde woman was wearing very thick eyeliner, and the men had on weird-looking crosses. The album was called Witchcraft Destroys Minds and Reaps Souls, and he hid the sleeve while Eddie was in the bathroom. He listened to it after Eddie went home the next day, the bass and the drums, and the smokiness of the woman’s voice making him want to hide. 

“He knows what you’re doing” she sang, and Richie shrank back from the record player. “You’ll go to hell.” And even though it was a record almost fifteen years old, Richie still felt like the blonde woman from the cover knew exactly who he was, what he was thinking, the things he was hiding. She made him feel seen. That feeling made him rip the record off the player, shove it back into its sleeve and hide it at the top of his closet, where no one could ever get to it to play it again.

Maybe devil music existed after all.

“She cuts a man’s heart, making deep gashes-“

Richie screamed.

Kate swerved the car so hard, she nearly hit the van in the next lane. “Richie, what the fuck?!” He spotted her phone plugged into the AUX cable, ripped it out and threw it in the back seat.

“What do you mean what the fuck?! Why the fuck do you  _ have _ that song?” She laughed, and it felt like being struck.  _ You’ll go to hell. _

“Why  _ wouldn’t _ I? Jinx Dawson is like, the original queen of the goths. She’s cool.” But all Richie could think of was heavy black eyeliner and a knowing stare.

“My mom had this record when I was a kid.” Kate laughed again.

“Your mom was metal as fuck, man.” Richie shrugged.

“Nah. She was just, she just had this one album among all the other peaceful, romantic hippie crap. I stole it from her when I was nine, because it felt too much like the singer on the record knew all my secrets.”

Silence reigned. 

He and Kate had talked a bit, about his apparent haunting. She’d asked him about the kind of person Eddie had been, how long they’d known each other. He’d told her about his parent’s divorce, about bouncing between Boston and Derry for a few years until he just. Didn’t see a point in going back. 

“Derry is fucked up. The further you get from it, the less you remember about it. Eddie and his mother moved to New York while I was gone and the last time I went back, before I decided to stop going back, it was like I was seeing a ghost all around town, one I couldn’t catch and couldn’t remember, but wanted so desperately, it was like a physical ache I couldn’t identify. Something I needed was missing, but I couldn’t remember what it was. That scared me so bad, I knew that I needed to leave. Forever.”  _ And I should have stayed away, _ he thought. Richie knew he was probably never going to talk about It ever again, on pain of death or worse, but it still felt strangely good to be able to talk about the weird little town he’d spent the first sixteen years of his life in. It felt good to talk about the Eddie he remembered. About the Losers Club.

“The friends I went back to see now, we grew apart after we all turned thirteen. Bev moved away, Bill was still dealing with the loss of his brother when he and his folks up and left, Mike lived outside of town and had a job, besides. Then Ben moved, and Stan moved, and it was just me and Eddie, braving the halls of a high school neither one of us was exactly sure how to deal with. Hanging out in the woods, in a stupid little bunker where we read comic books and slowly forgot what the initials carved into the door stood for. We needed each other to survive but for the longest time, we forgot  _ why _ .”

Richie had always assumed it was his devotion that kept Eddie from running. He was the kid’s best and only friend, who made him laugh and gave him all the things his mother wouldn’t let him have. He was always there for Eddie, until one day he wasn’t. Until he never was again.

He’d stopped wanting to talk then, and that’s when Kate had plugged in her phone.

Ah, shit.

“Hey, can I plug my phone in? I’ve got to make a call.” He’d promised Bev, but here he was, fucking up again. They were still a good half hour from home, and it wasn’t like he was going to need privacy to say hi Bev, yeah I’m alive, Bev. Sorry it took so long to call, Bev. Kate handed him her charger, and he made a face. “Dude, I have an Android.” Guess he was waiting until he got home, after all. Silence fell over the car again.

“How did you get his blood?” Richie froze. “I mean, you said you couldn’t get to him before the house collapsed, so how did you-”

“How does a ghost steal a jacket?” He asked, trying to deflect. “It’s a weird, wild world out there, Katie, shit happens.”

Before long, they were turning onto his street.

Back when this comedy shit had started making him real money, Richie had gone out and bought himself a house. Nothing too fancy, he was one guy that didn’t exactly have the hottest social life, just a two-story that looked out on the ocean. The kind of house that  _ should _ be filled with laughter, and music, and friends, and family, but more often than not, it was just him. It was his  _ fuck you _ house, his way of giving the deluxe bird to the concept of couch surfing, and table waiting, and dog walking, and all the other shit he’d had to do to keep himself alive before he got his big break. It was big, and it was beautiful, and it was  _ his,  _ and it was  _ lonely as hell _ .

At least it had a hot tub he could be found dead in some day. That bit  _ killed _ back when he was still writing his own jokes.

“You gonna be alright here alone?” Kate asked as he searched his pockets for his keys, praying that they weren’t miles beneath what used to be 29 Neibolt Street. “Because I mean, I can stay for a bit, if you want.” He finally found them in the outermost pocket on his suitcase.  _ Jackpot _ .

“I think I’m gonna be okay. What day is it? Tuesday?”

“Wednesday.” She corrected, and he nodded.

“Right, right. I’m gonna call around, tell Jack and everybody that I’m taking another couple of days for myself. If you and, and Emerald wanna come over Friday, that could be good, maybe then I’ll have something to tell you about,” he gestured at himself, at the space around him where he assumed Eddie might be. Kate sighed, but leaned in to hug him all the same.

“Don’t be a dumbass, Tozier. If something happens, you call me. Don’t forget: you’re my meal ticket.” He laughed, and while the sound felt foreign, it also felt right.

None of the other writers he worked with ever wanted to hang out with him, probably because they found him just off putting enough to be annoying. But Katelyn had liked him, genuinely like him, since almost day one. She’d introduced him to Emerald as her meal ticket a few weeks later, and that was about the time he thought she might, possibly, suspect, but she never said anything and  _ he _ never said anything, and now six years later, here they are. She’s marrying the love of her life, and he’s being haunted by his. Swell.

After their goodbyes, Richie finally works up the nerve to actually enter his house. He’s not sure what he’s expecting. It, popping out around the corner to grab him? The mangled specter of Eddie, screaming in his face about how Richie didn’t save him? But all he gets is a blast of cold air as the AC kicks on, and a sudden rush of complete and utter despair. He’s alone. He’s completely alone.

Except he isn’t. Except he never will be again, because there’s the light touch of  _ something  _ on his shoulder and he just. How does a person deal with something like this?

The  _ bdeep bdeep _ of his phone dropping from three percent to two percent answers his question.

Eddie is gone. Stan is, Stan is gone. But he had another friend, one he was closer to than the others because she let him be. And she was still alive, and probably still awake. 

Richie all but sprints to the charger he knows he left in the kitchen, plugging in his phone and heaving himself up onto one of the stools surrounding the little island table. Bev picks up on the second ring, and she doesn’t sound tired.

“Richie! We were worried about you. Was the flight alright?”  _ We _ . He’d forgotten, Bev had Ben now. Which, really, good for them. They deserved their happy ending. But it still made something sour and dark curl up in his stomach.  _ They deserve their happy ending, but you don’t, do you Trashmouth? _

“The flight was fine. Are you guys still in Georgia?”

They’d all flown down together for the funeral. They’d wanted to be there for Stan, for Stan’s wife that they’d never known. But she didn’t even see them at the service, and they hadn’t been sure if they’d wanted to follow everyone back for the wake. So they’d held court at a local bar, toasting to Stan, and to Eddie, until they were all drunk enough that no one cared who was crying or why. It was awful, that the only real freedom any of them had felt in years had come at the expense of two of their own.

“We’ve all split off again, for now. Ben and I are in New York, and he’s going to help me find a good divorce lawyer tomorrow. Are you sure you’re okay? You sound weird. Are you okay alone? We can come out there as soon as Friday, if you-” The touch was on his shoulder again, sweeping down his back to land on his hip. Richie swallowed.

“I’m not alone.” Beverly paused, and he could just imagine the confused look on her face.

“Do you have a friend over?”

“No, but. I’m not alone, Bev. Eddie followed me home.” There was silence on the end of the line and then-

“We’ll be there Friday morning.”


	5. Chapter 5

While his phone charged, Richie decided to take stock of his life.

What had he brought home from Derry? Unfathomable sadness, check. A suitcase full of clothes he needed to either throw in the wash or burn immediately, check. A literal ghost from his past, who was going to haunt him forever, check. Richie snorted, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet of the house.

“Can’t do anything half-assed, can you Trashmouth?”

It had taken him a while, what with all the other memories he’d needed to muddle through while he was in Maine, but now that he knew that he’d be keeping them this time...god.  _ Everything _ was coming back, whether he wanted it to or not.

“So, this is my place.” He said out loud. To himself, to Eddie, to whoever was listening. “It looks impressive if you’re used to the closets they have in New York, but I’ve got friends who’ve got houses six times this size. Probably because their dicks are microscopic and they need to make up for it, am I right?”

Eddie wouldn’t have laughed at that joke if he was still alive, but that’s not a surprise. Richie was used to his genital humor not landing with the other guy. “When we were kids, I used to dream about us getting a place like this. Somewhere warm, with a pool in the back and a lot of windows, so you wouldn’t have to go outside to get some sun. Gay, right?” The house stayed silent, and no touches came, so Richie took that to mean that Eddie wasn’t up for talking at the moment. “Okay fine, guess I’ll go fuck myself.”

He grabbed his suitcase off the floor, trekking to his small laundry room. Unlike back in Derry, the washer and dryer had their own place  _ inside _ the house here. No more clothes fresh from the dryer that smelled like car exhaust for  _ him _ . The clothes he’d worn in the sewer were inside several ziplock bags, to keep them from stinking up the rest of his bag. They were the first to be dropped in, and doused in soap. Yeah, he knew he ran the risk of making the washer overflow with bubbles again, but that was a risk he was willing to take. The rest of his clothes followed, not bothering to button up his shirts before they went in. Somehow, he knew something small and stupid like that would have driven Eddie crazy. 

_ “...button them up, you’re gonna keep losing buttons in the dryer, shitheel.”  _ He remembered Eddie telling him once, when he showed up at the arcade with half the buttons on his overshirt missing. 

“I’m a style pioneer, Eddie-bear.” Richie mumbled to himself, almost throwing another plastic bag into the washer with his clothes. “Oh, fuck! No no no don’t be open, don’t be open- yes!”

After they returned to the hotel, their bodies weary and their minds a mess, Richie had gone directly to Eddie’s room. He’d left his phone on his bed, and there were easily fifty missed messages from his wife. As he stared at the phone, it began to ring again. The wife.

They would call her later, let Bill tell their lie. She would scream and cry on the other end of the phone, beg them to tell her where Eddie was, where she could come get his body. But there was no body for her to take, and they’d be gone by the time she arrived, and okay, Richie is aware that they probably ruined this poor woman’s life worse than if they’d never called her at all but...he didn’t  _ care _ . She’d gotten to have Eddie so much longer than they did, she’d gotten to know the person he eventually became.

So Richie had felt perfectly justified in stealing Eddie’s phone, a few of his shirts, a particularly ugly pink sweater that was softer and finer-feeling than most of the things Richie had ever  _ owned _ ...he kept himself from taking everything in the room, sure that everyone else would want a piece of Eddie for themselves. They hadn’t.

He took the bag of Eddie’s things to his room, abandoning the idea of starting a wash entirely. The shirts went in the closet, next to his own. In a happier world, there would be even more of Eddie’s shirts in their closet, and they’d argue all the time over whose stuff took up more space, and maybe they should look into getting a bigger dresser-

“Nope.” Richie said out loud, sliding the mirrored door shut with a soft  _ klunk. _

The sweater was still on his bed. It was almost  _ too _ soft, like something Eddie brought with him for comfort, rather than to wear. It reminded him of a stuffed toy that Eddie had lost when they were seven. Richie thinks it might have been a rabbit at one point but when he’d lost it, it had mostly been a big fabric blob. Eddie had cried for days, and Richie had run himself ragged trying to retrace their steps so he could find it for him but in the end, it was gone forever. Richie dragged the sweater into his lap, resting his arms on it as he plugged Eddie’s phone into the charger by his bed. The seconds it took for the screen to light up with its welcome message felt like a lifetime.

“Oh, come on, you can’t make life easy for me, can you?” The screen required a four-digit passcode, and it wasn’t taking Eddie’s birthday. He tried another few number combinations (1234, 4321, 2016, 1989) and then, in a fit of desperation, punched in his own birthday.  _ 0307 _ .

The phone opened with a cheery little beep.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Kaspbrack?” He whined because that. That was. Why the fuck would  _ his _ birthday be Eddie’s passcode?

The contents of Eddie’s phone were simultaneously boring, and the most interesting things he’d seen in ages. His contacts were full of client numbers and according to his texts, he didn’t have many friends. Eddie also didn’t have a ton of apps installed on his phone, but the ones he did were just so  _ Eddie _ , Richie couldn’t get mad. Eddie wasn’t much for social media, it seemed, though he did have Facebook installed. A scroll through it revealed...nothing. Eddie didn’t use it for himself, and it looked like the only person that wrote on his wall was his wife. Closing the app, Richie checked the camera roll next. The pictures were mostly related to risk assessment, along with a few taken from an office window. In the mix, Richie found a single selfie. Eddie was smiling, but he also had those little lines between his eyes, the ones that showed up when he was worried about something. 

“You really grew up without me, huh?” Richie asked the empty air quietly, to no answer. “Wonder what shit you started listening to without me around to steer you down the right path.” He idly closed out the gallery and opened up YouTube-

And was greeted by the sight of his own face.

“You little shit.” He said, voice full of wonder. The algorithm was a bastard sometimes, but it also liked to recommend more of the stuff a user was already watching, so Richie went and checked Eddie’s channel. There were no videos of his own, but over a dozen different playlists of music videos he liked, TED Talk recordings he’d been meaning to watch, and a playlist titled HAHA, which was full of comedy clips. Most of which were...him. He clicked on one at random.

“So I moved here from the east coast a few months ago and- hey don’t you boo me, west coast is best coast is a mantra of mine now. I’m serious! I’ve lived here for three months and not  _ once _ have I been pelted by a salt truck. It’s January! My family can drag my corpse back when I die if they want, but not a moment sooner.”

That video had been posted on his own channel back when YouTube was new. It was so old, it had actually been recorded on a digital camera, rather than someone’s phone. And it had made Eddie laugh back then, made him laugh enough that he deemed the video worthy of being kept. Richie didn’t know what his heart was doing, but it was making his chest ache. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his knee.

“What the  _ fuck _ .” He breathed, because this wasn’t just the light touch of fingertips he’d felt before, this was a hand, a palm with five fingers attached, resting on his knee. “Eddie?” Richie asked, and the hand moved slightly, knocking the phone off his leg and onto the bed. “Did you not want me going through your phone? Wait, does this mean I’m getting close to the secret folders of your nudes or something?” The hand didn’t appreciate his joke, moving further up his thigh and pinching his hip. “Well if you think I’m gonna just wipe the damn thing, you’ve got another thing coming. You didn’t stick around long enough to tell me who you grew into, so I guess I’m gonna have to rely on secondhand information.”

And then, as quickly as it had appeared, the hand was gone. Its last act was to whip off the sweater on his lap, throwing it onto the pillow on the unused side of his bed. “We gotta figure out a way to get thoughts across without  _ throwing things _ , Eds.” Richie sighed, mostly to himself. Kate had warned him this might happen.

“You two have a bond, one that transcends death. I’m not Emerald so I’m just gonna give you the tldr.” She said each letter individually,  _ tee el dee ahr,  _ and it took Richie a second to remember what the acronym stood for. “It’s fucking dangerous, man. For whatever reason, this guy isn’t taking a visible form, but he can touch you. That probably means you can touch him too, if he sticks around long enough to give you a sense of where he is. Hauntings like this, of the one on one nature, generally don’t end well. The dead don’t want to stay on this plane, and sometimes things can turn...nasty.” 

She’d told him then, of a case Emerald had taken where a dead woman tried to convince her sister to follow her into death. Together, Emerald and the living sister had managed to placate the spirit enough for her to go wherever the dead go, but it wasn’t easy. “Don’t do anything stupid, Richie. He’s dead, and you’re alive. Keep it that way.”

“Shit, my laundry.” Was what came out of his mouth next. Richie finished throwing the wash together, set it to start. Then his stomach gurgled and he realized that it was well past one in the morning, and the last time he’d eaten had been on the plane, somewhere over Kentucky. So back downstairs he went, ready to raid the fridge for anything without mold on it.

All his leftovers were ruined, but one was still  _ morning _ which meant that he could justify making eggs. Right? Of course right. The little TV he had in the kitchen let out an unpleasant humming noise when he turned it on, which settled into music soon enough.

“Ha, check it out Eds, PBS is having their latest beg-a-thon. I remember that time your mom got a tote bag from them, and you used it as a lunch bag for two years.” Eddie’s mother had  _ loved _ PBS. It was so educational, and all the music programs they played were from her youth. It wasn’t much different in 2016, even if all the people who  _ really  _ appreciated remastered copies of doo wop songs were six feet under by now.

His own mother would have loved this collection.

One of the only things he actually decided to take with him from Boston after the funeral had been his mother’s record collection, along with her ancient record player and a few books of photos. He hadn’t forgotten his family when he’d gotten famous, but he definitely didn’t visit them as much as he could have. But the records, god. She’d had boxes and boxes of them. Enough to make any aspiring DJ sit up and pay attention, if they only planned to play the moldiest of oldies. He’d sorted the records when he got home, into piles of keep, donate, and sell. She had a few that a collector would pay top dollar for, and eventually did, but it honestly surprised him how much larger the keep pile was than the other two. He hadn’t realized just how much of the music of his early childhood came from these records, and his collection would only grow when his dad passed a few years later. 

Richie hummed along to the old tunes on the television as he cooked his eggs, deciding to go all-out and make some bacon as well. And hell, he’d had a long week, might as well pop some toast in too, right? Then a new song started, heavy on the background saxophone, and the rich voices singing at him from sixty-plus years in the past made him drop his spatula.

“Eddie my love, I love you so. How I wanted for you, you’ll never know. Please Eddie, don’t make me wait too long-”

He wants to shut off the television. He wants to jam his hands over his ears, so the stupid song he heard on his mother’s records when he was young and not entirely sure why he felt so strange around Eddie and not say, Stan, will leave him alone forever. But he doesn’t move. He can’t. Richie stands there frozen as arms wrap around his chest, holding him so tightly, he’s almost afraid to breathe. So he doesn’t breathe, just reaches up and wraps his hand around where a wrist feels like it should be. But now he’s even more afraid, because. Because what if this ends? What if talking to Eddie, acknowledging his presence, had been enough, and now he was at peace? What if this was the signal Eddie needed to take flight, to leave him forever, and the embrace is just him saying goodbye?

“Eddie?” His voice sounds pathetic, even to his own ears, and he hates himself more now than he ever has. This can’t be the last thing he ever says to him, this can’t be the last thing Eddie ever hears on Earth. “Eddie?”  _ Say something else. Anything! Just say- _

“Richie?”


	6. Chapter 6

It takes Kate and Emerald ten extra minutes to get to his place in the morning, because they stopped for coffee.

“Why the fuck do I need coffee?! Why does anyone? I didn’t sleep last night actually, thank you, I’m sorry.” Richie knows he can’t be an asshole right now, for once in his goddamn life he needs to be  _ cool _ and let the people who know more than him tell him what the  _ fuck is going on _ .

Emerald walks into the kitchen first, her eyes closed the entire way. He knows she isn’t familiar enough with his house to do that, wonders for a brief moment who’s leading her. She opens her eyes to climb the stairs, touching a few spots on the railing as she goes. Richie wants to follow her, but Kate keeps him downstairs.

“So, you said you heard a voice?” She tries to be casual but no, nope, they’re beyond that now. The time to be casual was two weeks ago, before Derry. Casual is out the window. “How do you know it wasn’t just the TV?”

He’d called Katelyn in hysterics from the front seat of his own car, ready to drive right back to her place, two in the morning be damned. She’d convinced him to stay put, to try and sleep. He hadn’t been able to do  _ that _ , but at least that gave him time to finish his laundry and fully unpack. Throw on his headphones and listen to some music from this side of the millennium. That was one of the perks of California, the radio stations tended to play weird alt-rock late at night, when everyone who wanted Top 40 stuff was already in bed.

“I  _ know _ what I  _ heard _ .” He grits out, just in time for Emerald to sneak up and scare the shit out of him.

“Richie, a sound like that, a voice, it needs to come from something physical. That’s how sound  _ works _ .” Richie can see in her eyes that something isn’t right. Something’s off. But if she wants to try and make him second-guess himself, he can put that other thing on hold.

“I know how sound works, but I know what I heard! Wind- wind makes sounds all the time! Wind isn’t physical!” Kate snorts.

“Wind. The force of nature that brushes up against things with actual physical forms and makes  _ them _ make a sound?” He shoots her the finger.

“Shut up. Emerald, you’ve had, have you ever met a- a spirit, or something, that can move things? Make sounds like that?” Emerald stiffens behind him and when he looks, her eyes are on the floor.

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“But I’m right, right? I’m right? You have? That can happen?” His excitement is a little sad, considering what he’s getting excited about. So his dead best friend might be able to talk to him in words, doesn’t make him any more alive. She sighs.

“But I’ve never heard a  _ voice _ , Richie.” Her tone gentles, reeling in her exasperation. “Sometimes, you’ll want something so badly, your mind will play tricks on you. You’ll hear things that aren’t there. And that’s alright, that’s-”

“Do  _ not _ tell me you understand!” Richie yells, and Kate steps forward, between them. “If you tell me you understand how I feel right now, I’m gonna kick you out of my house! Shit. Fuck! I’m sorry, I’m calming down, I’m just really tired.” He slumps against the wall, putting distance between himself and the two of them. “And possibly crazy.”

“You are  _ not _ crazy.” Kate says firmly, and he’s grateful. “You’re just really going through it right now, man, and we did  _ not _ give you decaf, so that’s probably not helping.”

Richie laughs, then lets himself be lead out to the back porch. He loves this part of the house. Five steps down, he has immediate beach access. When he was younger, he thought he might learn how to surf. That shit went nowhere, but at least he has a few funny stories he can tell people, along with a nasty scar on his leg from coral, of all things. Emerald dusts the leaves off her chair before she sits down, but he and Kate don’t. Eh, her clothes are nicer than theirs.

“So what’s the diagnosis, doc? Still haunted?” Emerald’s mouth is drawn in a grim line, and it’s in that moment that Richie highly suspects that he’s fucked.

“I was wrong, and I’m sorry. I want to start out by admitting that and apologizing, in the hopes that this next part isn’t too ah, upsetting.” He’s fucked like Canada during a cold snap. He’s fucked like Florida in a hurricane. He’s fucked like everyone who lives within five feet of a tree during the dry season. “There’s more than one presence here, but only one of them isn’t malicious.”

For a brief second, Richie blacks out. He’s brought It home with him. They didn’t beat It, It just got itself a new body. “H-how many presences are there? How haunted am I?” She sighs.

“Three. Two older, one much younger. That one, he seems the worst of the bunch. He didn’t like that I could see him, doesn’t like me being here. Really seems to  _ hate _ you.” Fuck. “The good news is, this Eddie, he’s stronger than them. They don’t have a bond to you, other than their hate, so it’s unlikely they’ll ever be able to actually  _ harm _ you, but they’ll absolutely try. I can see if I can get rid of them, but it might take a few days. Especially if,” she hesitated, and Kate finished the thought for her.

“Especially if you don’t want Eddie to go away too.”

They’re all quiet then, for a little while. Richie has a million thoughts racing around his head, and the other two never actually got to finish their coffee. It could be the wind ruffling his hair, but Richie doesn’t think it is. Suddenly, a very specific thought:

“What did these other two presences look like? Guys, right?” He doesn’t think it could be Stan, Stan didn’t hate anyone. And neither did Georgie, who was the only younger ghost he could think of.

“The older one was sort of rough looking, blonde hair cut into-”  _ No _ .

“If you say he’s wearing a mullet, I’m gonna lose my shit Emerald, swear to god.” The sad, sheepish look she gives him is all he needs. “Oh come  _ on _ , how many times do I have to fucking-” he stops himself from saying  _ kill you, Bowers _ because frankly, that’s not something anyone outside of the Losers needs to know. “Okay, what about the other one?”

“Tall, lanky. Brown hair. Sort of a wide mouth? His eyes were very cold, as well.”

It only takes a few seconds for a picture to assert itself in his mind. The old Bowers gang. Henry with his shitty mullet. Belch and his dumbass hats. Blonde Vic, who  _ could _ have been cool if he’d had the strength to break away from the herd. And Patrick. Patrick Hockstetter.

Fuck.

Patrick Hockstetter was the worst person Richie had ever known. Yeah, Bowers cut Ben up once, but everybody and their grandma knew that Patrick had killed his own baby brother when the psycho wasn’t even in real elementary school. That he caught and tortured animals out in the woods. That he probably would have been the next Dahmer if he’d lived past sixteen, complete with his choice of victims.

Ritchie’d never told anyone, but Patrick had seemed to assign himself the role of his personal bully. He  _ knew _ . Richie hadn’t really been sure if anyone could tell, but Patrick could. Patrick saw everything anyone did, with those cold eyes. He knew how to hurt people in ways Bowers had never dreamed of. He’d slam Richie against things, whisper to him, taunt him.

“ _ How fucking sad, this is the only time you’ll ever get what you want, and you’re too scared to enjoy it. _ ”

Sometimes, Richie wondered if Patrick had ever told Henry, about the way he was. Those thoughts always left pretty fast, because then Henry would ask how he’d known for sure, and then what was Patrick supposed to say? That like recognizes like?

The knowledge that Patrick Hockstetter’s body had never been found was almost more terrifying than anything Richie had experienced in the sewers that summer. Because what if he was still alive? It would be just like Patrick to take advantage of all of the disappearances and just up and leave town. Maybe It hadn’t laid a finger on him, and he’d pop up again one day, staring through Richie like he was reading him, worse than he’d ever been.

But in the deepest parts of his mind, Richie knows that Patrick Hockstetter is dead, that he’ll never bother him again. Because Patrick never would have left without Henry, wouldn’t have abandoned him to the cruelty that was Derry for Henry without him. 

And now they were together again.

Richie has enough of a mind to run to the edge of the porch before he throws up his coffee, his late night breakfast, and anything else that might have been left in his stomach, then passes out.


	7. Chapter 7

Richie remembers a time, ever so long ago, when he desperately tried to fall in love with Beverly Marsh.

He knew she wasn’t perfect, like Ben and Bill seemed to think she was, but she was brave, and strong, and smart, and she had that gorgeous hair that had started to look even better when she chopped it all off. He remembers sitting in a huddled group at the quarry, watching the rise and fall of her chest with the others, trying so hard to feel like they did. He _ wanted _ to want her, because wanting her would make him _ normal _, an unfamiliar concept to him even back then. If he could just fall for her like all the other Losers had, everything would be okay. But that would mean he needed to stop focusing on how it had felt when Eddie had held him underwater, stop sneaking looks at Eddie as he stared at her too. He needed to focus on how Bev’s hands had felt when he grappled with her as they played chicken, how she’d looked running mostly-naked to jump off the cliff before they did.

But he couldn’t. Because Bev wasn’t some girl he could fall in love with, she was just _ Bev _ . The coolest, nicest girl he’d ever known. And if he couldn’t fall in love with her, if he couldn’t make his stupid, useless heart and stupider, more useless dick want _ her _, what chance did any other girl in the world stand?

He picked Ben and Bev up from LAX at a truly ridiculous hour of the morning, barely a quarter after six.

“Kinda fucked that you guys left around noon and still got here in time to see the sun rise over the Pacific, huh?”

In his heart of hearts, Richie wishes he’d sent a Lyft or a taxi or some poor joker that couldn’t say no to his ridiculous demands without risking their job, but then he wouldn’t have an armful of Bev, pressed so close to him that if they were any other two guys in the universe, would cause Ben to seethe with jealousy. As it was, Richie just let her do what she wanted, let her confirm for herself that he was in fact still alive. “We good, Bevvy?” When she pulled back, Richie caught the sight of moisture at the corners of her eyes.

“Yeah, we’re good. When you called, I didn’t think- I wanted to get a flight out yesterday, but everything was booked.” Richie snorted.

“You’re telling me that with all that money, Ben doesn’t own a plane?” Ben, who was still standing on the curb with their bags, shrugged.

“They’re bad for the environment, Rich. Don’t wanna add to that anymore than I have to, y’know?”

Beverly laughed, as if what he’d said was the funniest thing she’d ever heard, and Richie’s heart panged so sharply, he had to actually look down to make sure he hadn’t been stabbed. This was. He was ruining it, their happy ending. Ben and Bev should be on a yacht in the Mediterranean somewhere, maybe with a cute pet cat or something. Enjoying the beginning of the rest of their lives. Not in L.A., babysitting him.

“Yeah yeah yeah, man of the year Ben Hanscom over here. Get in the car, Benbrandt. I volunteered for Uber duty, which means I get the bags.”

He wonders if they’d even unpacked, between leaving Georgia and coming here. They’d been in New York for less than two days, after all. One of the wheels on Beverly’s heavy bag nearly takes his finger off when he tosses it in the trunk, and he swears. Not loud enough for either of them to hear, but apparently loud enough for Eddie to feel the need to wrap his own fingers around his wrist.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” He mutters, and the touch recedes. He wonders if Eddie is gonna sit in the front seat, crammed down on the floor between Bev’s legs, or if he’ll go and sit in the back with Ben. He wonders if Eddie is happy to see them again, if he’ll let them know he’s here.

“So, where to, lovebirds?” It’s a bad joke but really, those are the best ones to make around old friends. “You hungry? Because at this hour, you’re kinda shit out of luck unless you like Starbucks or the worst diner food you’ve ever tasted.” He can see them using the rear view mirror to look at each other, and then at him.

“Richie-”

“No.” He says, firmly. “We’re not talking about this shit right now. I’m driving, and traffic is gonna be shitty, and I cannot think about what’s going on in traffic because I _ will _ lose my mind.” The car goes quiet. “So you guys can either tell me how the divorce lawyer search is going, or I can try and find something that isn’t talk radio until we’re within spitting distance of my front door.”

“I think we found someone. High success rate, especially among, uh.” Bev doesn’t want to say _ domestic abuse cases _ , but he knows. She’d told him, that night in the bar when they were all saying goodbye to Eddie and Stan. _ I married my father _ were her exact words, and that’s how he _ knew _ . _ See, if you’d just married me, we’d have three kids and a Pomeranian by now, _ he had joked. And she had laughed! Because if they’d all just _ stayed together _, maybe two of their own wouldn’t be gone. That was it, that was the joke. It was their fault that Eddie and Stan were dead. “Richie?” He’s blinking very rapidly behind his glasses, pushing back tears with all his might.

“Radio!” He blurts out, reaching almost blindly for the presets. Kate kept trying to talk him into Sirius XM, so he could listen to whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, but what fun was that? He _ wanted _ to hear Taylor Swift at completely emotionally inappropriate times! _ Is it cool that you’re in my head? _ “I hate this fucking _ song _, Bev.” He all but yelled, sniffing to keep the teary snot from leaking onto his lips.

“Richie. Pull over.”

And he could do it, you know. Marry Ben Hanscom right here and right now. It was totally legal in California, he could do it. Instead, he let Ben help him out of the front seat and into the back, his hands shaking too hard to properly buckle his seatbelt. So Ben did that too. “You don’t even know where I live.”

“So I’ll drive until I hit an area that looks familiar to you.” Ben replied fiercely, as if he was staring down the face of death instead of early morning commuter traffic. “Or you can just give me your address, whatever works.” And then Richie is laughing through his pathetic little tears, just straight up gasping for breath because oh, fuck. _ Ben _. Ben and Bev are here. Everything is gonna be fine.

“I like that first plan, mainly because I like the idea of someone other than me driving around in this fucking traffic. This is why I don’t leave the house before ten, you guys.”

After Richie rattles off his address, he leans back against the seat, closing his eyes. He can feel Eddie sitting next to him now, even though they weren’t touching. When the fuck had his spacial awareness adapted to include _ that _? “You think I’ve got ghosts following me around as some kinda punishment?” Eddie socked him in the arm, but lightly. “Ow! Knock it off, it wasn’t an insult. I meant like, a cosmic one. Bev gets caught up in the deadlights, boom, thirty years of horrific visions. I get caught up in the deadlights, boom, haunted.” He opens his eyes when he feels the car slow to a stop at a red light. Ben and Bev are both swiveled around in their seats so they can look at him. “What?”

“Is Eddie,” Bev hesitates, trying to pick her words carefully. “Is Eddie always with you? Is he here right now? Can you see him?” Fuck, Richie hadn’t wanted to talk about this yet.

“He’s here, but I can’t see him. My friend, the one who can actually see ghosts, she told me he doesn’t want to be seen yet but if you ask me, I think he just can’t figure out how to do it.” Eddie’s punch was harder this time, actually hurting, and he flinched. A gentler touch followed immediately after, running from the spot he’d hit and ending with their hands laced together. Eddie’s presence felt closer, too, as if he’d shifted from his spot on the opposite seat to the little half-seat in the middle. “Stop _ whacking _ me, you dumb asshole! I know it’s frustrating, but you’ve gotta let me talk for once.”

“For _ once _?” Ben and Bev said in unison from the front seat, and if Richie didn’t love them so much, he’d hate them.

“Yes, _ Benverly _, it’s impossible to get a word in edgewise with punchy the spectre over here. Emerald, the uh, medium, she told me that Eddie doesn’t want to be seen. But it doesn’t feel that way? When I first got back and went to see her, she told me that his presence was stronger than other ones she’s dealt with. Then he started being able to uh, touch me-” Bev whistled from the front seat, and Richie caught her eyes in the rear-view, waggling his brows at her. “Yeah yeah, get it all out of your system. But really, he started out only being able to kinda pet my hair with his fingertips and stuff, but now he can do shit like punch me and hold my hand, and it’s fine. The other night I uh, I heard him say my name.”

The scenery was changing, the further they drove. Richie could tell that they were only a mile or two from his exit now, and with the lightening traffic, that put them at twenty minutes or less from his actual house. They’d all be home, soon. Trapped in a house with a couple of dead guys that didn’t belong there. “There’s uh. There’s one more thing I should warn you about, before we get to my place.”

He’s sure that if he spits out the news about Bowers and Hockstetter quickly, ends it on a joke, they won’t panic too badly. It’s a fool’s gambit, and it doesn’t work.

“Bowers?!” Richie is proud of Ben. A lifetime ago, hearing that a dead Henry Bowers was hanging around his house would have caused the poor guy to wreck his ride. As it was, Haystack just swerved a few times. “Is it because you um, because you,” He mimed whacking someone in the back of the head, and Richie felt sick. 

“Yeah, probably? What I wanna know is how the fuck Patrick Hockstetter got my address. He’s been missing for almost thirty years, and yet as soon as Bowers kicks it…” He trailed off, not really wanting to say anymore. _ As soon as Bowers kicks it, he comes back again. To torture me. _

Katelyn and Emerald are waiting in the driveway when they pull up, and Richie’s heart speeds up in panic. What now?! “I swear you two, keep this up and I’m gonna start charging you rent. Benverly, this is Kate, who I work with, and Emerald, who she managed to talk into marrying her. Ladies, this is Ben and Beverly, two of the best friends I’ve ever had.” Kate formed her hands into a heart, then pulled them apart with a little cracking noise.

“You’re killing me, Tozier. All this time I thought that _ I _was your girl Friday, and now you import one from the east coast? Betrayal.”

If he concentrated, Richie could pretend that he and Eddie were introducing their childhood friends to their new friends, and were about to show them around their house. Bev would sprint out the back door, running straight for the water as Eddie yelled about jellyfish and coral shards, while Ben stayed to ask Kate how in the _ hell _ she and Emerald put up with him day in and day out. Eddie’s still holding his hand, never let it go even as he climbed out of the car, and it feels so _ real _, all he wants to do is close his eyes and live in the fake moment.

But of course, he can’t.

“Jack called this morning, demanding to know if,” she paused, putting on a decent imitation of Jack. “That _ fucking drama queen _ was ready to go over his new material yet. Then he asked me why I didn’t have any new material for him yet. Then I hung up on him, after telling him that if he wants to bitch at me, he has to call after ten next time.” Katelyn had been one of the main writers behind his Netflix special and after that was a hit, she all but stopped taking Jack’s bullshit. She wasn’t under an exclusive contract, after all, and he couldn’t bully her into one now that she had negotiating power. “Anyway, while they get settled, you wanna hash out some new bits?”

Richie gave a noncommittal shrug as he unlocked the front door, ushering them all in. “Yeah, we can do that. How’s it looking, Emerald?” He didn’t know all her tells yet, but she didn’t _ seem _ disturbed by anything. 

“Calm. Nothing seems disturbed. May I..?” She gestured at the stairs, and he swept an arm out. “Thank you.”

The house had two guest rooms, one downstairs that doubled as an office, and one upstairs, on the other side of the laundry room. He planned to have Ben and Bev stay upstairs, so they were within easy reach if something happened. And then Emerald screamed.

They all raced for the stairs at once, Ben beating them up by a fraction of a second. Emerald was standing in the doorway of the guest room, normally olive-toned skin white as a hospital sheet. Once he was able to peel her away and peer into the room, Richie saw why. “Jesus, fuck!”

The room was torn apart; sheets in tatters on the floor, pillows an explosion of cotton and fabric. Something had flipped the mattress as well, and the standing mirror in the corner was on its side, surprisingly still intact. But the worst part was the window. It wasn’t broken, but there were smears of red all over it. Letters.

“Hi Losers.” Bev read aloud, her voice shaking. “Oh. Ohh Richie, what the _ fuck _. How did they know we were coming?!”

“I’ve spent the last two days talking to Eddie!” Richie yelled back, too stressed and anxious to even attempt to control his volume. “It’s not like I can actually _ see _ anything, how am I supposed to know when someone other than Eddie is in the room with me? Like, fuck Emerald, do you have any ghost-detecting glasses or anything? Like in that movie?”

“I don’t think they needed special glasses to see ghosts in Ghostbusters?” Emerald asked, confused, and Richie immediately felt bad about his own taste in movies.

“No it, it’s an older one that got remade a few years back-”

“Thirteen Ghosts!” Bev interrupted excitedly. “We saw the older one at the theater once, at quarter movie night. It was a double feature with, oh.” She flushed when Ben put his hand on her shoulder, shaking his head. “Sorry, that just came back to me.” Even if her tone was a little inappropriate, Richie was still glad that Bev was getting flashes of memories this long after Derry. Meant he wasn’t the only one.

“To answer your question, Richie, no. You can’t really transfer true sight to other people. Unfortunately.” Emerald muttered that last part, eyes narrowed as she glared at the furthest corner of the room. “Because frankly, I don’t want to watch these two anymore.” Bev had ventured into the room to pick up a pillow, but froze.

“Are they...in here now?” She whispered, eyes darting in the hopes that she could pick up a glimpse of whoever was supposedly hanging around, her hands balling into fists.

“We should probably. Go downstairs?” Ben offered, feet still planted on the other side of the doorway as he reached out and grabbed for her elbow. “Talk this out where we know they aren’t?” Emerald stays put as the rest of them file back down the stairs. “Emerald? Everything okay up there?”

“Fine!” She calls, joining them. “Richie, I need you to answer something for me and please, don’t lie.” _ Oh god, oh fuck. _ “Did you kill the guy with the mullet?”

“Yeah.” Richie sighs, his entire body itching to get a drink. It’s not even nine in the morning. “It was self-defense, but yeah. Henry Bowers broke out of the nuthouse to try and kill us. He stabbed Eddie. If someone hadn’t done something...look I’m just making excuses. Yeah. I killed him.”

Emerald covered her face with her hands, not actually trying to muffle her frustrated groan. “And the decomposing teenager? Another self-defense killing.” Bev shook her head.

“Patrick Hockstetter went missing when we were thirteen, along with a bunch of other kids. We uh, we know who killed him, but-” Nope. Not right now.

“So I need air!” Richie said suddenly, spinning on his heel and heading for the back porch. “I mean, what I really need is ten drinks, but it’s a little too early for that, right?” _ It’s five o’clock somewhere, Richie. _ A chill went down his spine, because that thought, that outdated reference, it wasn’t entirely in his head. 

It’s almost cold out, between the cloud cover and the ocean breeze, and Richie wonders if he should brave going back inside to grab a jacket. _ I could keep you warm. _ “If you’re gonna talk to me, Spaghetti man, you gotta do it where other people can hear, or I’m gonna think I’m insane.”

No more words come, but Richie feels the pressure of Eddie’s arms around his waist, feels Eddie’s forehead pressing against his shoulder blade. He doesn’t feel any warmer on the outside, but with the way his heart has started pumping blood at triple time, he should feel it soon. 

“Thanks, Eds.”


	8. Chapter 8

Richie hates the way Patrick stares him down in the hallways at school, dragging his lower lip into his mouth only for it to pop out again seconds later as he leans down to whisper something to Bowers. He knows he isn’t in  _ trouble _ unless Bowers decides to follow him out of- oh, fuck, here he comes.

“Hey, Tozier! Get your ass back here, trashmouth!” Richie knows he can’t outrun them, knows that Belch and Vic could be anywhere, knows that it’s smarter to just take the beating he’ll get now, rather than the worse one he’ll get if they have to chase him. So he slows to a stop, waiting to be shoved to the ground. To have his backpack thrown up a tree. Something.

“Hey there, Richie.” Patrick’s voice behind him is oil in his ear, quicker than he thought he’d be. And then Patrick has his arms beneath Richie’s armpits, pulling him back against his chest and locking him there. “Wanna have some fun?”

“F-fuck you, dickhead!” He’s stuttering like Bill, dwarfed and overwhelmed by Patrick, terrified to even try and twitch forward away from Patrick’s body. He’s so uncomfortable, sweat has already started to drip down the back of his neck in the cold March air. 

“Heard your birthday was coming up, Tozier. Don’t you want a present?” Patrick holds him tighter as Henry finally makes it to them. “Get his backpack, Pat.”

Patrick’s still holding him with one arm as he rips the backpack off Richie’s back, tosses it to Bowers, who runs off with it. “Oh what the fuck, man, at least lemme know which tree you assholes are throwing it in this time.” He whines, shudders as Patrick licks a stripe up his cheek. 

“How old you gonna be, Richie? Thirteen, right?” And he doesn’t wanna answer Patrick, doesn’t want him to know anything about him- “You’ve got a whole new world of hurt coming, Richie. I’m gonna fuck you up, birthday boy. In ways you’ve never even imagined.” But then Bowers is coming back, his backpack still in hand, and Richie freezes. Did a teacher catch him?

“Here you go, Tozier.” He sneers, thrusting the backpack into his arms, jerking his head at Patrick, who releases him. “Happy birthday!”

They walk off and for a second, Richie thinks he might be in the clear. Then the smell hits him.

Bowers had shit in his backpack.

When he relays the story to the guys later, he leaves out the part where Patrick had licked him. Eddie is, as always, horrified.

“What did you  _ do _ ?!” He squawks, looking around as if Richie’s contaminated backpack was hovering over his head. Richie just shrugged.

“Threw it out. Put all the stuff that wasn’t in the shit compartment into my lunch bag, then threw it out. Told my folks it ripped on the way home.” That made Stan frown.

“You should have at least told your parents. Pretty sure shitting in someone’s backpack is a felony.” Stan thought every bad thing the Bowers gang did to them had to be a felony.

“Well I’m fuck outta luck then, Bowers’ dad is a cop.” They had this same argument every time, with Stan on the side of the law applying to everyone, and Eddie on the side of-

“Shit, he’d never see a day in court.” There was his little ray of sunshine. 

Eddie had always been a realist. Being a ghost must be killing him. Richie laughed out loud at the thought, and four heads swiveled in his direction. “Sorry. Had an idea for a joke no one but me would laugh at.”

“So, just another day for you, huh?” While he was glad they were all getting along, Bev didn’t need to high five Kate like that. In his own kitchen, no less. The disrespect.

She and Ben had explained about It while he was outside and somehow, somehow! Kate and Emerald hadn’t immediately called the nuthouse. Child-eating interdimensional clown monsters from outer space must seem normal to someone who sees ghosts, and the person who regularly lets seances happen in their home. So now everyone was caught up. Everyone was in the know.

“If we’re done making fun of me, anyone got any ideas on how to kick a bunch of freeloaders out of my house?” Eddie pinched him again and across the table, Emerald laughed. “What?” She shook her head.

“The look on his face. It’s all scrunched up, like he’s eaten a lemon.” Richie knows exactly which one she’s talking about. He’s missed that face. Is gonna keep missing that face, until Eddie can figure out how to materialize.

“Well, he better put that fuckin look away, he knows I don’t mean him. He can stay as long as he wants, so long as he  _ stops pinching m _ -” He’d swept his hand to the side, where the pinch had come from, expecting to be able to make this wide gesture but. But then his hand hit something solid. Just for a split second, and then it went away. “Hey uh, valid question but, what the fuck?” Whatever he’d hit had felt cold. His entire hand was cold, now. Emerald was staring at him. Which meant that everyone was staring at him.

“Did you just..?” Richie nodded, because it was unlikely she was going to ask a question other than  _ did you just touch a ghost _ and frankly? The time for sidestepping answers was done. “Alright then. Now, for the others.”

Emerald had suggested he leave the various rituals and blessings to the four of them, if he wanted to keep Eddie safe, so Richie went down to the beach. It was peaceful in the early afternoon, none of the usual foot traffic from his neighbors, and he let himself focus on a boat in the distance, watching it until it blended with the horizon. 

“I wish I could have dragged you back here that night, after the restaurant.” He said out loud, kicking at some seaweed that he’d stepped on. “Just- knocked you out, put you on a plane, and brought you back here. Kept you safe. I’m taller than you, I should have been able to keep you safe.” Richie expects another pinch for his trouble, but gets a hand wrapped around his wrist instead. “Man, I can’t wait for you to be able to run that motormouth of yours again. Earlier, I thought about how being a ghost must be killing you, and I laughed about it because like. You’re dead. Of course being a ghost is killing you. Something killing you directly affected you becoming a ghost.” That one earned him a little shove. “Yeah yeah, I know. Say, if you’re so tough, why don’t you go in there and punch Bowers in his ugly mullet-wearing face?” Richie’s eyes find another little boat, so he doesn’t notice when no reply comes, even after a few minutes pass. Once he  _ does _ notice, though, he panics. “Eddie?  _ Eddie _ ?!” Still no reply.

He’s off and sprinting for the house, just as he begins to hear the sounds of crashing.

Richie walks into a war zone. His kitchen is a wreck. The couches out in the living room? Overturned. All his DVDs? Flung around the room, their little hutch broken in half. Almost all of his chairs are broken. There’s chanting coming from upstairs, as well as yelling, and he races up as fast as his legs can carry him.

Kate is unconscious on the floor, a bloody gash on her forehead. The remaining three are holding hands in a circle around her, yelling what must be the magic, witchy equivalent of  _ get out get out get the fuck out _ . Emerald has a chunk of hair missing, and Bev looks like she’s been scratched. Ben’s got bruises all up and down his arms, and it looks like the H on his stomach is bleeding again, from the stain spreading across his shirt. Richie knows that those psychos locking onto him wasn’t his fault, but it’s impossible to not feel guilty seeing these results.

It pisses him off.

“Okay you know what? That’s enough! Get out of my house! Get the fuck out. You’ve completely worn out your welcome, and I’m just straight up not having a good time right now.” He knew they were all staring at him like he was insane and fuck it! He probably was! But Bowers and Patrick were here for him, because of him, and now Eddie was probably up here too fighting  _ his _ fucking fight and- “You heard me, Henry Bowers! Patrick Hockstetter! I cast you the fuck  _ out _ !”

It felt like the entire guest room was shaking. The bed frame was bouncing up and down, stuff was starting to go flying at random, like the two assholes were running around chucking things. Then the clock was ripped off the wall, launching itself at his head. Richie braced for impact, but it never came.

“He said,” started a familiar voice, and Richie felt every hair on his body stand on end. “Get the  _ fuck out _ of our  _ house _ , and go blow each other in  _ hell _ !”

When he finally felt somewhat emotionally prepared to look up, Eddie was there. A fully-formed apparition wearing the stupid leather jacket he’d bought nearly fifteen years ago because he thought they were the coolest articles of clothing a guy could own, clutching his stupid cat clock that a fan had sent him that was, in actuality, one of the coolest gifts he’d ever gotten. There wasn’t any blood on his face and when he turned, the hole in his chest was gone, too. Eddie was still a full head shorter than him, which meant that Richie wanted,  _ needed _ to know what he felt like with his head pressed into Richie’s collarbone. Right now. Immediately. Instead he asked,

“Did you say  _ our _ house?” In an incredulous tone of voice, then collapsed onto the floor, completely unconscious.


	9. Chapter 9

Richie waits for the applause to die down before he starts his set. It takes three minutes and twelve seconds longer than usual but really, that’s to be expected when you ghost the entire world for eleven months.

After Eddie had materialized, several things had happened in quick succession.

First, Bev had broken the circle, tripping on Richie’s prone body as she ran to him. She passed right through him, but the accidental kick to the shoulder had been enough to wake Richie up and if that hadn’t done it, Ben’s scream would have done the trick.

“Bev! Watch out!”

She’d ducked in time to miss the headboard, which had been ripped off the bed frame entirely, and it left a dent in the wall.

“Didn’t I tell you fuckers to get out of my house?” Richie had groaned, sitting up carefully. The floor had finished the job the clock had tried to start, and his head was killing him. But then Eddie was just...there, on his knees next to Richie, checking his head and staring deeply into his eyes. If it weren’t for the absolute chaos around them, it would almost be romantic. “Oh. Hi. Fancy meeting you here.”

“You got rats in your shitty beach house, Tozier.” Eddie replied, and Richie snorted.

“ _ Our _ shitty beach house, spaghetti head.” His hand moved up, curling around Eddie’s wrist. “Fuck, I can touch you? That’s, that’s awesome. Think I can touch those guys? I’m pretty sure I’m taller than Hockstetter now, I could probably deck him no pr-” Richie’s entire body went cold as he felt something wet and slimy on his cheek. Eddie’s eyes widened in fear, but just as quickly narrowed in indignation. He couldn’t hear whatever Patrick was saying, because who else could it be than Patrick, but it was riling Eddie up more and more by the second.

“You talk a big game for someone no one missed.” Eddie said eventually, radiating calm even as he shook with rage. “Not even Bowers missed you.”

That’s when hell broke loose for a second time.

Eddie was knocked backwards by something Richie couldn’t see. From context, he assumed that Patrick had lunged at him, punching him over and over. But then something amazing happened.

Eddie began to fight back. And from the looks of it, he was winning.

By this time, Kate was awake again, and had taken Bev’s place in the circle. Emerald’s voice had risen in pitch and volume, practically howling into the air. If it wasn’t Los Angeles, Richie was certain someone would have called the cops by now.

“Let those who are unwelcome _be_ _gone_!” She shrieked, just as Eddie, whose hands seemed to be wrapped around Hockstetter’s neck, yelled

“Get the fuck _out_ _of_ _here_!” and then 

it just

stopped.

There was nothing flying around the room. Eddie had fallen back on his ass, no longer crouching over a body no one else could see. Emerald had fainted.

“Dude.” Richie huffed out, looking around the destroyed wreck of his guest room. “I know we just got back, but I think we need a vacation.”

So...they took one.

Ben and Bev left a few days later, after helping Richie put his house back together and spending some much-needed time reminiscing as a group. They even got Bill and Mike in on the act, Skype providing the audio, if not the visual. Eddie couldn’t be caught on camera it seemed, which was kind of disappointing.

“Not too much of a shame though Eds, you really have more of a face for radio.” And there it was, the lemon face. Richie loved that face. He’d say stupid shit all day long to get that face to come out and play as a kid, and time doesn’t change a man as thoroughly as one would think. “Completely ruins your chances at a career in porn, though.”

After Ben and Bev took their leave, Richie got on all his social media and posted one message, three letters: BRB. Then he disconnected his phone, withdrew a few hundred thousand from the bank, had Kate go to Verizon and add a new line to her family plan (he’s going off the grid, he’s not an  _ animal _ ), packed up his tour suitcases, the big ones, and off they went. His new phone is an iPhone, and he’s inexplicably pissed about it. Making fun of Apple People had been like, a third of his act back in 2010, and now he  _ was _ one.

“So where to first, pal? I’m thinking Joshua Tree.”

It was another joke from the good old days. Eddie’s mother had once ripped an old Emmylou Harris record of hers right out of his hands and thrown it into the trash because of her association with ‘that man’, so, being curious nine year olds, the pair of them hadn’t rested until they’d found out what had happened to him. Gram Parsons had overdosed and, trying to act in accordance with his wishes, a couple of friends had stolen his corpse and partially burned it at Joshua Tree. Ever since then, up until they forgot, it had been a running gag for one of them to say,

“If this kills me-” and the other to reply, 

“I know, I know. Burn you at Joshua Tree.”

One of his new friends, years ago, had suggested going on a hiking trip in the park, but the idea had felt so world-endingly  _ wrong _ to Richie back then, that he’d refused. But now, buckled into the passenger seat of Richie’s car, Eddie just smiles.

“That sounds like a great idea.”

And so they go down the highway, singing and arguing and making all sorts of a ruckus for the short time it takes to get to the park. The wildflowers aren’t in full bloom, but the sight of the ones that  _ are _ there take Richie’s breath away. Or maybe it’s the way Eddie looks as he spins around in a field of them, giddy and passing through every single one.

From there, they drive down to New Mexico. On a whim, Richie buys himself a thick silver ring with a band of turquoise set around the middle. He contemplates buying a second one. They visit Carlsbad Caverns for a hot minute, before the feeling of being so deeply underground sends Richie into a panic, and nearly causes Eddie to dematerialize. No matter how far they get from Derry, the trauma that fucking clown inflicted will never actually  _ leave _ .

Tired of the weather, Richie drives north into Colorado, though he’s not really sure why. He’s not into weed or skiing, so instead he changes direction again, heading west until they’re at Four Corners.

“State lines literally mean nothing.” He remarks, taking a picture of himself flipping off Utah. “But I mean, being in four states at once is cooler than seeing the world’s largest ball of twine.”

Eddie makes them go see the world’s largest ball of twine next, solely because of that comment. It’s actually kinda fun. From there, because it was only one state up, Eddie then insisted that they  _ needed _ to see Carhenge.

“Are you just using me to see all the stupid tourist traps this country has to offer?” Richie whined at one point, and Eddie had grinned.

“Could be worse! I could be using you for your body and going there myself!”

The mere  _ idea _ of Eddie using his body in any fashion almost dragged another whine out of Richie’s throat, because. Because.

They’d been on the road for nearly five months at this point, and not  _ once _ had they sat down and discussed the, the  _ implications _ of Eddie’s spirit bonding with Richie’s body. Of his willingness to go along with any stupid idea that Richie offered up. Of the way Richie would sometimes wake up on top of the sheets of his shitty motel room bed and Eddie wouldn’t be contentedly watching late night TV on the other bed, but laying down next to him. Pretending to sleep as the big spoon, his cold arm a heavy weight on Richie’s side.

It was Eddie’s idea to check in on Patty, when they got to Georgia. Richie half-suspected that he wanted to see if Stan was still hanging around. Seemed almost disappointed that he’d found peace, instead.

“I’m sorry to barge in like this I just. I knew Stan, he was one of my best friends as a kid, I was, I was the only Loser to make it to his Bar Mitzvah I’m. I’m sorry.” Richie wants to scream that this was a mistake, that he shouldn’t be there, that it was _his_ _fault_ that Stan was dead, but an invisible touch from Eddie sets him right. For her part, Patty seems to be under the impression that he’d just found out.

“I’m sure you’ve been busy.” She tries to reason and oh, Stan really did find his match. “If you’d like to stay the night, we can go see him in the morning. Together.” He does and they do, reminiscing about the boy Richie had known, and the man Patty had fallen in love with. Richie tells her about the time Bowers had taken a shit in his backpack, and her nose wrinkles.

“That has to be some kind of felony.” Richie laughs out loud, howling with it.

“That’s what Stan said, too!”

It’s a good visit, under terrible circumstances, and Richie promises not to lose touch.

They’re in Florida when the dam breaks.

Richie’s idea this time, to go stay in a haunted hotel in the ancient city, “So maybe you can hang out with some ghosts for a change.”

The Casablanca Inn is truly beautiful, and Richie got them a room on the side that faced out towards the bay. The sunset really  _ does _ something to Eddie’s form here, lighting him up in a way that’s just. Supernatural. Gorgeous. Maybe both. It’s a college town, a tourist town, so Richie has to be careful here. He’s been letting his facial hair grow out and honestly? It looks awful. He can do stubble, stubble is his best friend, but a beard? He looks homeless. The woman at the front desk had nearly kicked him out before he’d whipped out a wad of cash and paid under the name Rich Kaspbrack.

“Taking my name, Trashmouth?” Eddie had hissed in his ear, laughter in his voice. “Might as well, it packs more of a punch than Tozier.”

The only bad thing about staying in a proper hotel for once is that, well, the room is a single. People can see Eddie, when he wants them to, but when it comes to checking into hotels and going out to eat, he mostly dematerializes. Saves a lot of time and hassle.

“This gonna work for you, Eds?” The chuckle in Richie’s voice is mostly there for show; in truth, he’s scared shitless. “If not, you can always have the nice, comfy bed and I’ll go sleep in the bath-”

“Richie.”

The sound of his name, from Eddie’s mouth, had always had the power to stop him in his tracks. Even when they were kids, and he pretended that it didn’t, he would stop whatever he was saying before Eddie even finished that first beep. Just to hear him say his name.

“Eddie?” But Eddie was walking away from him, sitting down on the soft-looking, freshly made bed. Patting the spot next to him. Richie tried not to humiliate himself and bound over but, well.

“Richie, we need to talk about some stuff.” Eddie sighs, leaning back on his elbows. His neck looks a mile long when he drops his head back. “I guess we should probably start with the big one.” And Richie was sure he was going to talk about the blood, about the way Richie had confessed his love to him, even about the fucking carving on the kissing bridge back in Derry, the one he re-carved before he left so it would never be forgotten just how much Richie Tozier loved Eddie Kaspbrack. “When I went to Derry, I wasn’t planning on going back to New York. I, I left my wife. Because I got a phone call from someone I hadn’t heard from in 30 years, and I suddenly remembered this loud mouthed boy that had been my whole world until I was sixteen.”

Oh fuck.

Eddie had agreed to go with him, when he’d wanted to leave. He’d assumed that he was just dropping Eddie off at a train station or something, but Eddie had. He’d wanted to.

Oh,  _ fuck _ .

“Why didn’t we leave when we had the chance?” Richie moaned, covering his face. His throat was burning from the effort of holding back tears, and the feeling of Eddie scooting closer was not  _ helping _ . “We could be having this conversation in a hot tub in Japan, or something. On a beach in Massachusetts. In our house in fucking Los Angeles while our fucking  _ dog _ begs to go for a walk.” He looks up, and Eddie is smiling.

“I think I prefer cats now, actually.” Richie groaned, knocking their shoulders together. “But if we’d left, everyone else would have died. I stand by the choices I made in Derry, even the stupid ones.”  _ I fucked your mom _ rings hollow in his ears, Eddie’s final words. “But I mean. If you’ll have me...”

They’re staring at each other now, Eddie hopeful, and Richie dumbfounded.  _ This calls for a joke _ , his unhelpful brain supplies.

“If I’ll have you?” He asks, nearly hysterical. “The number of times I had you in my mind during puberty, I’m honestly surprised my cock didn’t fall off.” The lemon face was back, but it came with a healthy dose of laughter.

“You’re  _ such _ a  _ dumbass _ !” Eddie crows fondly, reaching out and running his fingers over Richie’s beard. “Also, I hate this. I love you, but you can’t pull off a beard. Please shave the beard.”

“You love me?” Richie replied, and he knows how lovestruck he must look right now, even with the beard he’s going to shave off as soon as he figures out which bag he put his razor in. 

“Yeah.” Eddie sighs, petting the beard a bit harder. It’s long enough that he can really get his fingers in there and  _ yank _ . Richie might actually have to find a Walgreens or something and buy an electric razor for a job like this. He’s so focused on the way Eddie looks and on the thought of how the  _ fuck _ he’s going to get rid of this stupid beard, he almost misses what Eddie says next. “You’re gonna say it back, right?”

That sets him off, which sets Eddie off, and before he knows it, they’re laughing so hard that their neighbor starts banging on the wall. “It’s not even nine, dude! Go on a ghost tour or something, we’re busy!” Richie yells, then turns back to face Eddie. “I mean, I was waiting until I was handsome again, but I guess now is as good a time as any, right?” Eddie’s hands are cold, but he’s so happy, he can’t really care about that right now. They got a second chance. “I love you, Eds. I’ve loved you forever. I’m gonna  _ keep _ on loving you- wait, that’s an REO Speedwagon song.” And Eddie laughs, shaking his head, gripping Richie’s hands tighter. “We’re gonna go home. We’re gonna get a cat. And then someday when I die, we can meet up with Stan and go haunt the shit out of Bev and Ben on their farm with their fuckin’, two point five kids together.”

It’s a lot to promise, but he’s had a few years to imagine what life could be like with Eddie by his side. A few details changed, but the rest has the potential to stay the same.

Richie goes out and pays a barber to give him a shave and a haircut the next morning. Exactly 53 minutes pass before a picture of him eating breakfast at Maple Street Biscuit Company pops up on Twitter with the hashtag #foundRichie. Within the hour, he’s fielding calls from the other Losers and Kate, who yells at him because Jack had woken her up to yell at her and she’s grouchy at 5 am. Richie doesn’t want to go home yet, but they’ve been on the road for nine months, and he’s sure the cactus on his back porch is dead by now, so they may as well.

They take a direct route from Florida to California, meeting up with Mike for a bit along the way. He’s been finding himself on the road, and had made it as far as Kentucky. It’s Eddie that mentions it first, at a pause in the conversation. Them. How they were. Together. Mike just chuckles, because of course he does, and Richie wants to hate him for it. Can someone  _ please _ point out how weird it is that he’s dating a ghost?! Wait.  _ He’s _ the comic, pointing out weird shit is literally his job.

“So, how soon do I get to work my ghost boyfriend into my act?” Eddie and Mike both stare at him; Mike in amusement, Eddie in annoyance. “What, too soon?”

“Richie.” Eddie sighs, but there’s a warning in his tone. “I’m not your boyfriend.” Richie can feel the blood curdle in his veins. But before he can freak out fully, Mike gestures down at his hand.

“You’re wearing a ring, man.” Laughing, Richie throws his hands into the air and yells, 

“ _ Fine _ , my ghost  _ husband _ , then!” And then Eddie is leaning his head on his shoulder, and Richie can  _ feel _ the flyaway wisps of hair tickling the side of his neck, and his heart is full. The feeling lasts them the entire trip, up until a quick check of his home security reveals all the reporters camped out on his lawn, and then they’re veering away. “So, idea. Fuck going home right this second, let’s get that cat.”

They end up having to visit six different shelters before they find a cat that doesn’t flip its shit the second they walk into the room. The kitten is a yellow and white tabby that’s eight months old, is fixed, has all her shots, and falls in love with Eddie the second she lays eyes on him. Eddie immediately christens her Mashed Potatoes, and Richie loves him just enough to not point out that it’s a dumbass name.

Cat in hand, they go back home. The media is mostly gone, aside from the one TMZ guy Richie threatens with his mace.

“Can you at least tell me where you  _ went _ ?” The guy yells as Richie lets the garage door close behind his car. Richie grins.

“I went everywhere, man.” Eddie laughs beside him and in a fit of spontaneity, Richie leans down and gives him a peck on the forehead. “But now I’m home.”

“There’s been a lot of talk about where I’ve been all this time and I’d like to set the record straight: I wasn’t in jail, rehab, or a cult.” They’d workshopped that opening line for two days before Kate had decided for him that bashing Scientology this soon after vanishing for the better part of a year wasn’t in his best interest. “I uh, I actually had a pretty fucked up year, folks. Last summer, I lost two of my best friends. One killed himself, and the other died in a really horrible accident. I know, this shit isn’t funny, but I’ve been maintaining radio silence on basically everything, and I figure you guys won’t laugh at me until I tell you where the fuck I  _ went _ .”

After their talk with Mike, he and Eddie had gone back and forth about how much he should actually say about, well, everything. Richie already knew that he was never going to bring up It, or Bowers and Hockstetter, but he also knew that he wanted to talk about Eddie. That he needed to get a few really important personal revelations out in the open.

“So there’s this nonprofit called To Write Love on Her Arms, or so my friends tell me, because I’m so disconnected from everything I honestly thought it was a band for a while.” Richie coughs. “Anyway, the first time I saw a shirt with that phrase written on it, I had a panic attack and couldn’t figure out why, until I remembered that like 30 years ago, a bully wrote the word LOSER on the cast of a boy I liked, so I changed it to LOVER because I’ve got a braincell and a half. I guess what I’m saying is that sometimes life is just an endless series of oh shit moments and I’m uh. Gay.”

He isn’t expecting the scattered cheers. If he’s being real with himself, Richie is honestly expecting the same kind of reaction he’d gotten in an arcade in a shitty small town in Maine, but this is California. Gay comedians aren’t exactly a rarity here.

“What does that have to do with literally anything? Well, the three biggest questions the poor kid that runs my social media accounts keeps getting bombed with are one: where did Richie go, two: when is Richie coming back, and three: what’s up with the ring.” He flashes his left hand at the crowd, the silver band glinting as it gets caught by a spotlight. “Well the other friend that died, I uh. I was in love with him. My entire life. And after he was gone I figured well, it’s not like I’m ever gonna move on, so now I’m in a deeply committed relationship with his memory.” That gains a few confused laughs, so Richie pushes on. “And I’ve gotta tell you, ghost husband? Best decision I ever made. Get hit on at the grocery store? Ah sorry, ghost husband. Friends wanna keep me out too late, not realizing that I’m over 40 and can’t drink like that anymore? Later guys, ghost husband! Someone tries to break into my house? Well actually, I have a cat and a really goddamn good security system to take care of that, but you tried, ghost husband.” 

The laughs are really flowing now, and Richie can see Eddie beaming at him from a seat near the front. Richie eventually moves away from his ghost husband material, talking about the places he went on his soul-searching road trip. He ends his set with a couple of funny stories about Mashed Potatoes, and finally his closing line:

“You guys have been awesome, thanks for showing up even after I ditched all of you for a year. I’m gonna go get laid and uh, apologies to my neighbors for all the wailing. Ghosts ain’t quiet.” He winks at the audience, and ducks offstage. They’re still laughing, chanting his name, but Richie isn’t going back out there.

After all...not all of his ghost husband jokes were just jokes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I only have one more chapter of this in me. The concept is still alive and well in my heart, but I kept coming up with dialogue that would fit better in other fics while writing this chapter and uh. Ended up writing three different fics in their entirety. I’m afraid of what I’d end up with if I dragged this out longer than 10 chapters.


End file.
